


Playing Games with Loyal Servants

by Melibe



Series: The New Plan [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Beelzebub gets a phone, Earth is doomed, First Time, Gabriel drinks cocoa, Humor, Ineffable Bureaucracy (Good Omens), Light BDSM, Nonbinary Beelzebub (Good Omens), Other, Post-Canon, assholes in love, but I'm pretty sure Aziraphale and Crowley will save it again, demons love tetris, flies are gross but I just love them okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-08-19 04:09:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20203495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melibe/pseuds/Melibe
Summary: Business meetings between the Lord of the Flies and a particular Archangel have turned unexpectedly steamy with the discovery that Beelzebub enjoys the pain of being touched by an angel and Gabriel is only too happy to provide it. But when chasing their mutual pleasure isn't enough to sustain a relationship, they may need some advice from a more well-adjusted couple.





	1. Chapter 1

Crowley is Not Happy to be back in Hell. For five exquisite years they ignored him, then one day he grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl and his thumb sank into its rotten flesh—even though Aziraphale had just restocked that morning and there shouldn’t have been time for anything to go bad. A cloud of flies buzzed up from the bowl, revealing a summons written in brown ooze.

He almost refused to go, but after talking it over with his angel he decided it would be worth finding out what Beelzebub wanted. So now he’s sauntering as best he can through the crowded hallways of Hell. At least they get a little less crowded when the other demons recognize him. When he reaches the office, he pushes open the door. Nobody bothers to knock in Hell.

Lord Beelzebub is in a bad mood. Not that Crowley has ever seen them in a good mood, mind you, but their standard demeanor could be described as malicious apathy. Today they look different. Today the flies around them hum with a violent rage that makes Crowley very, very glad he’s immune to hellfire.

The only chair is the one Beelzebub’s draped sullenly across, so he leans against the wall. “You really should get a mobile phone,” he says. “Texting is loads easier than rotten fruit messages.”

“I have a phone,” says Beelzebub, holding up something that looks like a shard of black glass recently vomited out of a volcano, its screen so cracked that only supernatural forces could be holding it together. “I don’t have your number.”

“When did you get that?” asks Crowley, impressed to see Hell’s management lurching into modern times.

“Five yearzz ago,” they answer.

“And has it always, er, looked like that?”

Beelzebub slams the phone down on their desk, hard enough to shatter it twice over. “I didn’t bring you here to talk about phonezz, Crowley.”

Fair enough. He shifts into a more comfortable slouch. “Okay, so what’s up?”

“You know about angelzz.”

“Uh, well, in a manner of speaking—” Crowley can’t claim to know much about angels in general. He’s intimately familiar with one particular angel, but that’s not a typical specimen. Before he can properly qualify his knowledge, Beelzebub goes on.

“How do you hurt them the worzzt?”

This puts Crowley at even more of a loss. He has occasionally hurt Aziraphale’s feelings, but that can’t possibly be what Beelzebub wants to know. He blinks at them through his sunglasses and takes a wild guess. “Are you planning some kind of guerrilla warfare against Heaven, since Earth isn’t available as a battlefield? Taking Armageddon directly upstairs?”

“If that were pozzible,” says Beelzebub icily, “you may be zzure we would have done it zzenturiezz ago, traitor.”

“Well, I have no idea what you’re talking about then.” Crowley shoves his hands in his pockets and rubs his shoulders against the wall. The constant buzzing is making him itch.

Beelzebub growls in frustration, as if they can’t believe Crowley’s stupidity. “I mean if you wanted to hurt one zzpezzific angel very badly, what would you do?”

Crowley’s casual attitude does not change, but his throat tightens. “If you’re threatening Aziraphale—”

“Can you zztop thinking about your boyfriend for five minutezz?” they snarl.

(No, Crowley thinks but does not say.)

“I want to dezztroy Gabriel, that blezzed paragon of virtue. I know you hate him too, zzo don’t hold out on me. What can I do to him?”

“Yeah, Gabriel’s a real shit all right,” says Crowley slowly. He’s wanted to inflict painful discorporation on the archangel more times than he can count, but he wonders where Beelzebub’s explosive rage is coming from. They look ready to combust. “Fuck that wanker.”

Beelzebub gives him a look, and Crowley understands as clearly as if the demon lord said it out loud: _I have been._

“Oh for Satan’s sake,” he gasps, his cool act finally slipping. “You and _Gabriel_?”

* * *

Meanwhile, in Soho, Aziraphale sits in the back of his bookshop failing to read. He knows there’s really nothing to worry about, and Crowley will be back from Hell in a few hours at most. But still, when he hears the front door, he’s grateful for the distraction of a customer. He hurries out to greet them.

“Welcome to—” Aziraphale stops short. “Gabriel! This is a surprise.” His voice, while polite, holds an edge. Hasn’t Heaven agreed to leave him alone?

“Nothing to worry about, Aziraphale.” Gabriel doesn’t look up from the shelf he’s staring at, absently running his finger along the book spines. “I’m here for personal reasons.”

“Oh, I see,” says Aziraphale, although he doesn’t. “Can I, er, help you find something?” Not pornography, please, he silently begs.

Gabriel pulls a book off the shelf without seeing it and turns it over in his hands. “No, no, I just . . . I’ve had a little disagreement with a colleague, and I thought a break here on Earth might clear my head.”

Aziraphale is baffled. Who would dare to fall out with Gabriel? “I do find the bookshop a nice place to think, myself. Would you like some tea or cocoa?” He immediately regrets the offer, wishing Crowley were here to stop him from being so foolishly hospitable.

“I don’t—” Gabriel begins.

“No, no, of course not,” agrees Aziraphale in a hurry, hoping to forestall another lecture on sullying the celestial form with gross matter.

Then Gabriel sets down the book and looks the other angel square in the face. He sighs, and Aziraphale would almost say he looks haunted. “You know what, I’ll take the cocoa. It’s hardly the worst thing I’ve done with this form.”

* * *

“With _Beelzebub_?” Aziraphale is on his second cup of cocoa, having downed the first in nearly one gulp to cope with Gabriel’s confession. “Prince of Hell, Lord of—”

“I know who they are, thank you,” snaps the archangel.

“And you told them—”

“Well, I implied—”

“—that the two of you don’t care for each other. And you haven’t heard from them since.”

Gabriel gazes moodily into his mug. “Which just proves my point, doesn’t it? I’m sure they haven’t given me a second thought. But I find that I’m . . . well, I’m an angel, so of course I feel a moral compulsion to do right by everyone, even such a debased—”

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale interrupts, quiet but firm. “Don’t do this to yourself. Believe me, I’ve been there. I pushed Crowley away because I was afraid, because I was so sure we couldn’t be together. And he came back to me anyway, because he’s—”

“Can you spare me the swooning over your boyfriend, and make your point?”

Blushing, Aziraphale goes on. “I don’t know Beelzebub very well, but I don’t think they’re anything like as forgiving as Crowley. If you want to fix this, you’ll have to go to them.”

Gabriel shakes his head. “There’s nothing to fix. I really don’t think they care.”

“They do.”

Both angels look up to see Crowley lounging in the doorway. Aziraphale beams at him, and the demon comes into the room and leans down for a kiss. “Hello, angel.”

“Crowley.” Gabriel scowls at him. “How long were you listening?”

“Just long enough.” He spreads himself on the couch, legs across Aziraphale’s lap. The angel barely lifts his cocoa out of the way in time. “If you don’t think Beelzebub cares about you, Gabriel, then you’ve got your head farther up your own ass than I thought.”

“What would you know about it?”

“I just had a meeting with them, and I have never in six thousand years seen the Lord of the Flies this pissed off.”

“So what?” Gabriel shrugs dismissively. “Anger is just one of the many sins you demons excel at, isn’t it?”

Crowley looks at Aziraphale. “Let me throw him out. Please. I’m begging you.”

“Not yet, my dear.” Aziraphale pats the demon’s knee, then turns to Gabriel. “Crowley is absolutely right. Some demons may be angry all the time, but not Beelzebub. They don’t usually do anger. Even at Crowley’s trial, Beelzebub looked bored.”

Gabriel shoots him a surprised look that says, _How would you know that?_ Crowley’s legs tense slightly, and Aziraphale knows he’s thinking, _Don’t give us away, angel._ But Aziraphale just smiles sweetly. Why wouldn’t he know every detail of his lover’s trial in Hell? 

Gabriel seems to accept it, his mind still buried in his own relationship mess. “So I’ve managed to make Beelzebub angry. I suppose I should be proud.”

“You should go and fucking apologize, is what you should do,” hisses Crowley, losing what little patience he began with. “Or apologetically fuck. Whatever you two are into.”

Aziraphale gives him a predictably scandalized look, which does a great deal to calm the demon’s nerves, then nods to Gabriel. “I really think apologizing would be the right thing to do.”

The archangel swallows the last of his drink and stands up briskly. “The right thing to do! How very angelic, Aziraphale. Knew you still had it in you. Off I go, then. Thank you for the cocoa!” He waves the mug, ostentatiously miracling it clean before striding out of the bookshop.

“Arrogant prick,” mutters Crowley. “I hope Beelzebub discorporates him.”

“I think they’re perfect for each other,” says Aziraphale with a little smile.

“Suppose you have a point. If Gabriel really does apologize . . . ” Crowley trails off. “Oh shit.”

Aziraphale frowns. “What is it?”

“Angel, just imagine those two on the same side.”

“It’s strangely endearing.”

“No, _think_ about it. What would they _do_?”

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s eyes widen. “Oh _dear_.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flashback time! We have to find out how this trash fire started, don't we? Actually the rest of the fic is nearly all flashback, but I promise we'll return to the present eventually.

Once the Antichrist was born, Beelzebub had let a lot of Hell’s everyday business slide in order to gear up for war. It had seemed practical at the time. What did plumbing leaks or temptation quotas matter when you were aiming for the ultimate victory?

And then, contrary to every reasonable expectation, the world failed to end. The earth, the perfect stage for the final showdown, was snatched from under their feet by a _child_. A child who’d decided to be human, when he could have _ruled the world_. (Ruled in name, anyway. Beelzebub had been quite certain they’d still be the one doing all the work.)

The Prince of Hell felt a strong desire to throw a fit and discorporate into a massive swarm of flies, but that kind of irresponsible behavior had already overtaken half the demon army, and Beelzebub was supposed to be better than that. Well, worse than that. So they stalked the halls of Hell with their wings out and put the fear of Satan into the ravening hordes, and once that was done, they sat down with a cup of mediocre coffee and a horrendous backlog of paperwork.

There wasn’t much comfort in the company of other demons. Hastur was reliable, at least, but so morose he depressed even Beelzebub. On the other end of the scale, Dagon was sure the end times would start up again any day now, _any_ day now. That kind of optimism was exhausting.

It was almost a relief to meet Gabriel, in a drab office somewhere between Heaven and Hell, to review the two armies’ decommissioning papers. Beelzebub could tell from the bone-weary expression on the archangel’s too-beautiful face that he’d been dealing with the same shit in Heaven that they’d been facing in Hell. Despite having spent millennia planning to annihilate him, they found it difficult to muster quite the same antagonism now that they’d shared the same disappointment.

If Gabriel felt the same way, he only showed it by acting pissier than ever.

As they were packing up, Beelzebub muttered something under their breath, and Gabriel snapped, “What was that?”

Beelzebub ignored him. Gabriel reached over, grabbed their chin, and tilted their face up to meet his violet eyes, flashing with annoyance. “I said, what did you—”

He was cut off by Beelzebub’s gasp of pain. The searing holiness of the archangel’s fingers on their corrupt skin burned like hellfire would burn any mortal. But they didn’t pull away.

It was Gabriel who dropped his hand, frowning. “What just happened?”

“Your touch,” said Beelzebub, wincing. “Blezz it, that hurt.”

He looked down at his fingers in surprise. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t be zzorry. I liked it.” Beelzebub gave him one of their rare smiles, a feral light in their eyes. “Do it again any time.”

Gabriel stared after the demon as they walked out the door. Beelzebub never did tell him what they’d muttered, which was: “The more of an azzhole you are, the more I like you.”

* * *

Gabriel left the building in a bit of a daze. From time to time over the past few thousand years, he’d been obliged to meet with the Prince of Hell for bureaucratic or political reasons. He had discharged his holy duty with gritted teeth, always looking forward to the time foretold when he could smite the wicked creature right out of existence.

He’d only gotten distracted watching Beelzebub’s lips move if they happened to be saying something exceptionally boring, and he’d only spent _one_ evening, back in the sixteenth century, trying to decide what color Beelzebub’s eyes were. He’d certainly never imagined what would happen if he touched them. Never thought it might hurt them.

Beelzebub had liked it.

Wasn’t there a word for someone who liked pain? He remembered that humans used dictionaries to look up words, so he headed for a bookshop. By the time he arrived at A. Z. Fell’s, he’d realized that he could probably get what he needed without having to open a book.

“Seller of books!” Gabriel cried as he stepped inside, oblivious to Aziraphale’s consternation. “You must know about words!”

“Er, quite a few of them, yes—”

“Is there a word for a person who enjoys painful sensations?”

“Masochist,” responded Aziraphale primly.

“Ah, yes. Thank you, fine book-seller!” Gabriel was nearly back out the door when another thought occurred to him. “Is there also a word for—”

“Sadist,” interrupted Crowley, sticking his head out from behind a shelf. “The one who likes dishing it out. Is that what you wanted to know?” His expression clearly conveyed the opinion that he was addressing Heaven’s most exemplary specimen.

“Thank you for the words!” Gabriel called gaily, as he left the bookshop.

The next time he saw Beelzebub, he touched them more. A _lot_ more. Beelzebub undressed to make it easier, then insisted on undressing Gabriel to make it fair. And that was how Gabriel ended up naked on top of a demon, with Beelzebub writhing and sobbing for more as their nails dug into Gabriel’s back and he shuddered with the wonderful, terrible pleasure of their transgression.

* * *

Afterward Beelzebub lay still for a long while, putting their mind back together. Eventually they realized that Gabriel was looking at them, so they turned to look back.

“You’re still here,” the archangel murmured, his head propped up on one arm.

Beelzebub snorted. “Did you exzpect me to run away?”

“No, I . . .” He stopped, rolling onto his back to gaze up at the ceiling.

“What then?” demanded the demon.

“For a few seconds there, I was afraid you might discorporate.”

Beelzebub rolled their eyes—but they knew what he meant. In the heat of their climax, with Gabriel buried deep inside them, the agony and ecstasy had nearly torn them apart. “You were afraid?” they asked, truly curious. “Izzn’t that what you’ve alwayzz wanted? The holy archangel Gabriel, dezztroyer of demonzz?”

“Well, discorporation isn’t the same as destruction,” he answered in his usual smug tone. But then he folded his arms behind his head and added quietly, “I don’t know what I want anymore.”

It was the most vulnerable they’d ever seen him, possibly the most vulnerable he’d ever been. They weren’t foolish enough to believe they could take full responsibility. The archangel must have been at least as shaken by the shitshow of an Armageddon-that-wasn’t as Beelzebub had been. Still, they wanted to feel some satisfaction. _Isn’t this what_ you’ve _always wanted?_ they asked themselves. _Corrupting an archangel? Planting seeds of doubt in the most faithful?_

And yet the expression on Gabriel’s face made it annoyingly difficult to gloat. For some reason all Beelzebub could do was press against him, flinging one leg over his thighs and resting their hand on his chest. His words still echoed in the room. _I don’t know what I want anymore._

“That makezz two of uzz,” sighed Beelzebub.

Gabriel brought his arm down around their small body and drew them even closer. Then he looked down, frowning. “Isn’t this hurting you?”

“No,” they admitted, a bit surprised themselves. “It tinglezz, but thatzz all.”

“I wonder why.” He ran his hand lazily along the outside of their thigh, knee to hip and back again.

“Maybe you’re lezz holy now that we’ve fu—Ow!” Beelzebub’s suggestion had been met with an offended growl from Gabriel, and immediately the searing pain flared up everywhere their skin touched. “Or maybe—for a little while—you juzzt weren’t angry.”

“I’m an angel,” said Gabriel, sounding genuinely surprised. The pain faded as quickly at it had come. “I don’t get angry.”

Beelzebub buried their face in his shoulder, smothering laughter. “Of courzze. Never mind dezztroying the bazztardzz and the reprobatezz. Never mind zzmiting the wicked and ungodly.”

“Well, in the name of righteousness—” Gabriel began, but Beelzebub cut him off.

“You juzzt keep using that old excuzze. I bet you fucked me in the name of righteouzznezz, didn’t you?”

That earned them a slap on the ass—and a laugh. So Gabriel did have a sense of humor, after all. “And now we’re cuddling in the name of righteousness.”

Beelzebub stiffened. “We’re not . . . _cuddling_.”

“Sure we are.” His fingers trailed up the demon’s spine. It didn’t hurt at all, which Beelzebub hated. It was soft, and sweet, and _awful._

“Zztop it.”

“Why? It feels nice.”

They shoved violently away from him, leaving a scorched handprint on the perfect skin of the angel’s chest. Gabriel sat up with a small sound of surprise and hurt as Beelzebub scrambled out of bed. “What’s wrong, Beelz?”

“Don’t call me that,” they snarled. They snapped their fingers, and they were fully dressed.

The angel healed his blistering skin with a glance. “I meant it affectionately.”

“That’s the worzzt part. Dumbazz.” _But I’m the real idiot,_ Beelzebub thought. _I should’ve left right afterward. Why am I still here, watching Gabriel get dressed?_

He was putting his clothes back on like a human, with careful vanity, one item at a time, and Beelzebub found they couldn’t look away. He was like a marble statue, like a classical hero—like an angel.

_I just lay with that,_ Beelzebub thought, and bile rose in their throat. “You really are dizzguzzting.”

He glanced up from fastening his slacks, his lip curled. “This from the one covered in boils and flies?”

The demon snorted. “I’m glad I revolt you as much as you do me.”

“I didn’t say that,” Gabriel pointed out as he worked on his shirt buttons. “I think you’re adorable.”

Furious, Beelzebub turned on the bed with obnoxious silk sheets that Gabriel had manifested once it became clear what direction their “meeting” would take. With another snap of their fingers, the bed was consumed in smoke and flames. “Letzz never do thizz again.”

Gabriel waved his hand. Both bed and fire disappeared. “Never works for me,” he agreed, but his tone was mocking, as if he already knew they’d be doing it again. And again and again and again.

* * *

Sandalphon stared as Gabriel stepped off the ethereal escalator. “What’s that smell?”

Gabriel shrugged. “You know I have to meet with my . . . counterpart, from time to time. It’s repugnant, but necessary.”

“But I’ve never known the smell to linger like this.”

_Shit shit shit,_ thought Gabriel, then covered it with a broad smile and and even broader lie. “As it happened, their flies were especially agitated today, and several attempted to land on me. I extinguished the little beasts, of course, but it was a bit messy.”

“Ah, yes. I can just imagine those evil pests getting fried by your purity.” The gleam in the other angel’s eyes roused a strange protective feeling in Gabriel. Sandalphon had no business imagining _anything_ about Beelzebub or their flies.

Biting down on that reaction, he said cheerfully, “I’ll just go and clean up.” 

Once he was alone with a bath of holy water, he pulled out his phone before getting in. What a brilliant invention, the cell phone. So practical, so private. He found Beelzebub’s number and typed, “I wish Sandalphon’s nose wasn’t so keen. I had to tell him some of your flies landed on me.”

Then he slid into the water with a satisfied sigh, leaving the phone in easy reach. When it buzzed a few minutes later, he snatched it up.

“Understatement of the year.” Gabriel could just hear the dry tone of Beelzebub’s voice behind the words. “Dagon said I stink too. Lucky she doesn’t know what angel cum smells like.”

Gabriel nearly choked. Had Beelzebub really not bothered to clean themselves up with the same magic they’d used to dress? That was gross . . . and also kind of sexy. It made him think the demon lord had wanted to keep a souvenir of the encounter, despite all they’d said. It made him type recklessly. “Neither did I, until today.”

This time the reply was immediate. “That was your first time? Ever?? You’ve never even done it to yourself???”

Face burning, Gabriel set the phone down and sank into the water over his head. How to explain that he’d been sexless for most of his existence? That he’d never had a reason to explore the more intimate aspects of his physical form until very, very recently?

When he surfaced, another message was waiting. “I’m writing myself a commendation for deflowering an archangel.”

Now the heat in Gabriel’s face was anger, definitely anger, and with a swipe he deleted the entire conversation. What an absolute idiot he had been. He wouldn’t do it again. _Never works for me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm convinced that coffee in Hell is always mediocre. If it were truly awful, no one would drink it, and there'd be less suffering.
> 
> In the book of Enoch, the Lord tells Gabriel to proceed against the bastards and the reprobates--and also, interestingly, against the children of fornication. Spicy!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aww, thanks so much for the kudos and comments, kind readers! This is the chapter that features flies being gross and/or cool depending on how much you like flies. Also, Tetris!

But a few months later, there had to be another meeting. With earth and all its humans still very much in existence, Heaven and Hell both needed agents back in the field, this time with a far stricter supervisory structure. Beelzebub wanted to argue the nuts and bolts of shared oversight, while Gabriel was determined not to give an inch on the subject of thwarting.

As they negotiated, Beelzebub kept looking at Gabriel, and Gabriel kept pointedly looking away. Finally Beelzebub leaned their whole upper body across the table, arms splayed out, head tilted to one side.

“I was a little szhit about it being your firzzt time,” they said without preamble.

The demon lord sounded almost contrite. Gabriel cleared his throat. “Yes, you were.”

Beelzebub’s hands moved under their chin as they gazed at him, a tiny smile tugging their lips upward. “You can puniszh me for it.”

Despite the twitch of interest from a very specific part of his anatomy, Gabriel kept his face neutral. “Hmm,” he said, glancing down to shuffle through files.

He heard a rustle of movement, and then Beelzebub was on his side of the table, crowding into his personal space. “Don’t you want to?” they asked, reaching out to tug playfully on his scarf.

He pulled it out of their hands. “Does it count as punishment if you like it?” he retorted.

And then, oh merciful Heaven, the demon lord was actually climbing into his lap, fingers winding back into his scarf, flies buzzing eagerly around both their heads. “Come on, Gabe, I know you like it too.”

“Don’t call me that,” he said sharply, putting his hands on their hips—still protected with layers of clothes—just to hold them still, because they were moving in the most distracting way.

“Make me zztop, then,” Beelzebub whispered, face close to his, a kiss hovering in the air between them. A kiss that Gabriel knew would scorch the demon’s lips, make them whimper in pain as they opened their mouth and invited his tongue in, like inviting the lightening to come and play.

“What happened to ‘you revolt me’?” he said, raising one eyebrow. “What happened to ‘never again,’ you _slut_?”

He hadn’t meant to add the insult; it had just slipped out. But seeing Beelzebub’s eyes widen and feeling their thighs clench around his . . . well, he couldn’t regret it. Their voice was low and hungry. “Izz that what you think of me?”

“I don’t know what to think,” he said.

Beelzebub pressed closer, as close as they could get without touching his skin. “I’m only a zzlut for you, Gabriel,” they murmured. “Only for you. Pleazze . . . don’t make me beg.”

The archangel smiled then, possibly the most wicked smile he had ever smiled in his millenia-long existence. He drew one fingertip over their cheek and almost saw sparks fly as the demon let out a soft cry. “Oh, Beelz, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

* * *

The third time Gabriel suggested they meet in a hotel instead of an office, and after that they took turns booking the venue. Beelzebub would rent the filthiest room in the most questionable establishment in the red-light district, just to see if the archangel would dare to show up. Then Gabriel would invite Beelzebub to the penthouse of the city’s poshest hotel, forcing the demon lord to either clean up their appearance or hypnotize the bellhop to be let in.

It was a reasonably entertaining substitute for Armageddon.

This is how Archangel Gabriel justified having an affair with the Prince of Hell: he liked it. He’d never been shy about liking things. Wasn’t the satisfaction of a perfectly-tailored suit comparable to the pleasure of fitting two bodies together? If he appreciated the cheerful yodels of “The Lonely Goatherd,” couldn’t he also enjoy the sound of his own name falling in a moan from Beelzebub’s lips?

He was well aware that humans had developed a complicated set of moral codes around sex, but that was because their feelings always seemed to get involved. Beelzebub was a demon, ergo, no feelings, so nothing to worry about there.

Still, in rare moments when he was perfectly honest with himself, Gabriel knew that _he_ had feelings, and one of them was guilt. He’d never before hidden anything from the other angels or from the Almighty. He did not mention Beelzebub even in his most private prayers. When She didn’t mention them either, he began to wonder if this constituted tacit acceptance, a compensation of sorts for setting him up as Her champion and then pulling the rug out from under him.

By this point the ineffable plan had proven so effing ineffable that he’d hardly be surprised to find out his affair with Beelzebub had been Written Down somewhere, maybe even underlined.

Beelzebub, however, did not have the luxury of imagining that their boss might approve of Gabriel. They knew with every occult fiber of their being that if Satan found out, He would squash them like a—well, you know. But unlike Gabriel, Beelzebub didn’t feel the slightest guilt. They were a demon, after all; deceit was in the job description. The Great Adversary never would find out, because they wouldn’t let Him.

This confidence lasted until the day some blessed reeking hellspawn swiped their phone.

Beelzebub had been lounging in their chair surrounded by moldy paperwork and an ever-growing cloud of flies, feeling so bored they’d had to take a break from work just to revel in it. Their gaze flicked from one fly to another. Usually they manifested one species at a time, but now the air was thick with fruit flies, dung flies, black flies, sand flies, blow flies, and a charming collection of mosquitos, gnats, and midges (all of which are technically flies). The sickly fluorescent light glinted through thousands of tiny translucent wings and reflected in thousands of compound eyes. A cacophony of discordant buzzing filled the room.

Beelzebub invited the biters in for a meal. A hundred parasites obediently landed on the demon’s skin and sank in their mouthparts. Beelzebub’s breath hissed between their teeth. “More.” Insects blanketed their body, and they suddenly remembered the last time they’d made that demand—

_“More,” Beelzebub panted. “Take me harder, you fucking pathetic excuzze for an archangel.”_

_“Pathetic?” Gabriel sneered. “You should see yourself now, Prince of Hell, pinned flat on your face. You can’t even move, you’re practically crying for my cock.”_

_They twisted to spit over their shoulder, “I could move if I wanted.”_

_“Oh, you think so?” Gabriel’s hand tightened on the back of the demon’s neck as his hips slammed forward, and Beelzebub came hard, biting into their fist._

The memory brought such heat curling through their skin that the insects all took flight again, buzzing frantically around the room. Beelzebub rubbed a restless hand over the new welts on their face, and sat up to look for their phone. It couldn’t hurt to let Gabriel know they were looking forward to the next meeting.

Their phone wasn’t on the desk. Or in it, or under it, or in any of the pockets or folds of Beelzebub’s clothes.

WHERE. IZZ. MY. PHONE.

The words echoed through Hell, not exactly audible, closer to subsonic. In offices and hallways and drainpipes, demons turned to each other nervously. Hordes of flies streamed around every corner, listening, looking, biting, and laying eggs (because what is Hell if not a botfly larva burrowing under your skin in order to emerge two months later as a grape-sized maggot).

Although Beelzebub preferred not to bother, they could think quickly when necessary. Right now it was necessary. Whoever had their phone could read their correspondence with Gabriel and bring it straight to the bottom of the Pit. At that point, Beelzebub’s only chance to escape torment that would exceed even their own considerable pain threshold by several orders of magnitude would be to convince Him that they were up to something.

Which, of course, they were. They were _always_ up to something. Until today it had been nothing more than a hazy set of ideas, but now, as a handful of horseflies buzzed a message in their ear and Beelzebub swung out of their chair and began walking, it all came into focus.

The fact was, Heaven wasn’t the real enemy anymore. Heaven hadn’t interfered with the Antichrist, had they? They’d been strictly hands-off. No, it was those wretched humans—with the help of the traitors, who might as well be considered humans at this point—who had ruined the whole show.

So Earth didn’t want to be a battleground? Fine. Let it be elevated to an opponent. Since the humans were so obviously God’s favorites, Hell could find real triumph in obliterating them. It would be a worthy challenge. Despite their physical weakness, humans had all that ineffable free will, plus nuclear weapons. Hell might even need allies to crush them properly, and in that case, Heaven was the natural place to turn. Wouldn’t Gabriel’s horn call down legion upon legion of avenging angels, if the humans were judged and found wanting?

Beelzebub finished sketching out this plan even as they stalked into the room that contained their phone. A small knot of demons, including both Hastur and Dagon, stood hunched around the device, too mesmerized to notice.

GIVE. ME. THAT.

Their voice was still subsonic, a message that vibrated unpleasantly through spines and skulls rather than limiting itself to the ossicles of the inner ear. The demons all jumped, and a few blessed out loud. 

Hastur swallowed and pointed at Dagon. “She’s the one who took it.”

“Lord,” said Dagon, with a simpering smile. “This is extremely entertaining.”

Beelzebub held out their hand. The phone flew into it, slicing deeply through Dagon’s flesh on its way over. Dozens of flies descended on the open wound and began to feed and copulate, despite the demon’s frantic attempts to shoo them away. Beelzebub looked down at the screen as calmly as possible, expecting to see their most incriminating messages.

The demons had been playing Tetris.

“Oh,” said Beelzebub in their normal voice.

“Um, Lord?”

Beelzebub glanced up at Hastur, who looked both apologetic and desperately eager. “Couldn’t we see about getting a game like that in one of the break rooms?”

The Prince stared at the Duke until he started to sweat, then snapped their fingers. A Tetris arcade game appeared against one wall. Ignoring Dagon, who had collapsed to a whimpering maggot-filled mess on the floor, Hastur and the other demons crowded up to the new box.

“What’s this then?” one grunted, poking at it.

Another squinted at the writing. “Says it takes a token to play.”

“What’s a token?”

Beelzebub stood back and smirked. Disaster had been averted. They’d been granted a reprieve, and they’d damn well take advantage of it.

“I’ll be gone for a while,” they told the demons, who were about to come to blows over what a token was and where you could find one. “I have a meeting down Below.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The Lonely Goatherd" is a song from The Sound of Music that does, in fact, feature yodeling.


	4. Chapter 4

If you want to get to the very depths of Hell, you can take flight after flight of stairs (which is a special kind of Hell just for quadriceps) or you can take the elevator (which works more reliably the less enthusiastic you are about meeting Him). But the quickest route is simply to fall.

Beelzebub zipped their phone into a pocket and launched themselves into the abyss. For a few seconds they reveled in the sickening plummet, then spread their wings to glide the rest of the way. This was nothing like the original Fall, of course, yet the overpowering scent of sulfur and the feather-singing heat still brought back memories.

_Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven._ Beelzebub recalled His hand in theirs as the two of them roused the rest of the Fallen and built this place together, circle by circle and stone by stone.

With an effort, Beelzebub released those ancient thoughts to the howling wind. It would be too easy to lose themselves in the abyss if they didn’t hold on tightly to Now. Thousands of years of careful orchestration had all come to nothing, but they could mold a new plan from the ashes of the Great Plan. And if the New Plan required Beelzebub to keep seeing a certain violet-eyed archangel on the regular, well, that was a sacrifice they were willing to make.

Though it’s the fastest way to travel, falling still takes a long time. And when you arrive, speaking with the Great Adversary takes even longer. Little things like minutes and hours are too nervous to find their way down to the bottom of the Pit.

* * *

Gabriel had never been to Hell, but he was certain it couldn’t be worse than the Daisy Chain Motel. The cracked-paint flower over the front door leered at him with the same expression of knowing disgust as the stoned desk clerk, and even the dense smoke couldn’t mask a stench that made him wonder which floorboard hid the dead body.

Room 106 contained a different but still awful reek, and Gabriel decided to turn off his sense of smell for a while. He looked around at the stains on the walls and carpet, the used needles on the dresser, and the tiny black dots crawling on the bedsheets. He glanced into the bathroom, then hurriedly closed the door.

Beelzebub didn’t usually make him wait like this. Sometimes when he arrived they’d be lurking outside the hotel or in the lobby. Once they’d already been in the room, lounging naked on the bed, a night he remembered vividly because—

_“Someone actually vomited on me in the hall.”_

_“Oh, good.” Beelzebub didn’t quite smile, but they looked pleased as they stretched on the filthy sheets. “That’zz almozzt as nizze as the bedbugzz.”_

_Gabriel frowned down at the sleeve he’d been forced to miracle clean. “You don’t have to convince me that earth is a nasty place, Beelz. I already know.”_

_“Do you really, though? Do you know what people think when they zzee you in a place like thizz?” The demon put an extra sneer in their voice. “Look at him, all dolled up, rich buzzinezzman who could have anything, do anything, and he’zz taking hizz guilty pleazzure with a cheap whore in thizz part of town.”_

_Gabriel’s expression darkened. “If that’s the way you want it, then get over here.”_

_The demon prince rolled off the bed and walked to him, unselfconscious in their nudity, slender and wiry, a tantalizing mix of curves and angles. Gabriel put his hands on their shoulders and pushed down hard, forcing them to their knees. He knew it hurt; Beelzebub’s lower lip went white and then red from biting, and their skin was flushed with arousal._

_He unfastened his slacks and let them fall to his ankles, followed by his underwear. “Go ahead, bitch, suck me off.”_

_Beelzebub’s eyes widened in delight. “Archangel, are you even allowed to zzay that—”_

_Gabriel grabbed their hair with one hand and their chin with the other. “I said suck it.”_

_The demon licked their lips and leaned in, one hand gripping Gabriel’s hip and the other sliding between their own legs as they went to work._

Horny and uncomfortable at the memory, Gabriel sat down gingerly on the least stained bit of carpet. He knew that Beelzebub riled him up because they wanted to get hurt. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. On one hand, hurting a demon—dominating them and claiming them for his own—could be construed as a victory for Heaven. On the other hand, if he was doing exactly what Beelzebub wanted, that wasn’t much of a win, was it? To properly thwart the demon’s wiles, he ought to resist the temptation to anger.

A sudden crash against one wall startled Gabriel out of his thoughts. He closed his eyes with angelic instinct, and waves of peaceful love rippled out from room 106. The fighting couple in room 104 remembered that it was almost time for their favorite show, which brought back such happy memories of their first meeting that they reconciled on the spot. The drug deal in room 113 acquired philosophical overtones that would eventually lead the dealer to forgive his estranged mother, begin volunteering at an animal shelter, and adopt a mutt named Rosie who would lead him on a journey of self-actualization. The desk clerk found a chocolate bar she’d forgotten all about, and, while she was relishing it, the dead raccoon under the counter experienced a miraculous recovery and wandered out the front door.

Gabriel blinked his eyes open and smiled to himself. Beelzebub’s tardiness, which was undoubtedly intended to provoke him, had instead given him an excuse to do some good. He’d tell the demon about it, and then he’d hold them in his arms so _gently_, and kiss them so _sweetly_, and they’d be absolutely livid.

Yes, that’s what he would do. Just as soon as they showed up.

* * *

Beelzebub sat in their office, exhausted, with no idea what month it was. For a long while—maybe days—they stared numbly into space. Then Dagon brought them coffee, and the coffee was actually _good_, so good that Beelzebub recalled most of the maggots that had been enjoying Dagon’s internal organs. She’d probably killed someone to get this coffee. Maybe several people. Beelzebub could appreciate that.

By the time Beelzebub finished the coffee, they’d fully processed their conversation Below and they were smiling. Almost grinning, if the Prince of Hell could ever be said to do such a thing. They pulled out their phone and texted Gabriel, “I’ve had a brilliant idea.”

After a long silence, the phone buzzed. “I waited for you all night in that squalid hole.”

Beelzebub frowned in thought, and finally realized that the date of their next meeting must have come and gone. They couldn’t help snickering at the image of Gabriel waiting alone in the location they’d chosen. “I got busy.”

“You think I’m not busy? But I showed up.”

Beelzebub rolled their eyes. Gabriel could have asked why they’d been busy, but no, it was all about him and his dignity. “You’re such a diva.”

“Typical demon, to stand me up and then insult me. I don’t need this anymore.”

Beelzebub’s hand clenched around the phone as they considered a variety of furious retorts. _How_ dare _you call me a typical demon? I am Lord Beelzebub. I fought by His side and I Fell by His side; I rule Hell in His name._

But the word “need” tugged at them strangely, and they found themselves typing, “Anymore? Did you ever need it?”

“Of course not. It’s been an amusing diversion.”

The strange tug became hot and dangerous. “Oh, is that what it’s been? Are you saying you don’t want to see me?”

“I don’t really care either way.” As if he hadn’t been clear enough, he added, “It’s not like this means anything to either of us, right?”

That was when Beelzebub threw the phone against the wall. They had just spent the last . . . unknown amount of time . . . setting up the preliminary arrangements for an actual working partnership with Gabriel. And he thought they didn’t _care._

FUCK. YOU. Their scream didn’t quite reach Heaven but it did reach most corners of Hell, including the cluster of demons around the Tetris game, which had just rejected the only token they’d scrounged from all nine levels of Hell.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to the present at last, with an epilogue of sorts.

Gabriel waits in Beelzebub’s office. And waits and waits and waits. And wonders, briefly, if he’s fallen into his own personal hell, where he’ll be waiting forever. 

The door slams open, hard enough to knock plaster from the ceiling.

Beelzebub’s eyes widen fractionally when they see Gabriel, and they immediately shut the door behind them. The instinct for privacy, Gabriel thinks, is a tiny bit encouraging.

“What the actual fuck are you doing here.”

That’s less encouraging, but Gabriel isn’t going to be put off.

“I came to apologize,” he says, straightening his jacket, which it’s really much too hot to wear, but he wanted to make a good impression.

“You came here. To Hell. To apologizzze.” Beelzebub flings themselves across the desk, scowling. “To _me_.”

Gabriel swallows. Why is this demon lord so damned cute? Buzzing flies, oozing sores, and all. “Yes,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

Beelzebub waits, and, when Gabriel doesn’t say anything else, sneers. “Wow. Okay. That wazz anticlimactic. Now what?”

Good question, thinks Gabriel. “I suppose now you forgive me?” he asks hesitantly.

* * *

Beelzebub stares at the archangel for a hot minute, at that stupid immaculate suit and those stupid stupid eyes, then explodes off the desk. They knock into Gabriel with such force that he stumbles and loses his balance. Beelzebub drags him down, pressing their advantage, until they’re kneeling over him, his long legs splayed out in front and his hands on the filthy floor behind him.

“Forgive you?” Beelzebub snarls. “I’m a Prinzze of Hell, you utter moron. I don’t do forgivenezz. I do pain. Zzuffering. Fire and agony and . . . Gabriel, you were zzuch an idiot to come here. I am going to make you hurt zzo bad.”

They take a deep breath, chest heaving, flies buzzing. Several have bitten the angel’s face already, and red welts are rising. To the demon’s surprise, Gabriel doesn’t bother to heal them. Searching his beautiful eyes for fear, Beelzebub can’t find it. Is he really that overconfident?

“You came to Hell willingly,” they remind him. “No one will zzave you. I could roazzt you on a szpit for all the demonzz to eat and no one would zztop me.”

“I know,” says Gabriel quietly. “That’s why I came. To show you I really am sorry.”

Beelzebub’s fists tighten in his jacket. “To let me hurt you.”

“If that’s what it takes.”

To their alarm, the raging desire to destroy him is already fading. “You dizzguzzting angel!” Beelzebub doesn’t like how raw they sound, but they don’t have much choice. “Are you trying to be zzome kind of martyr? What the hell izz wrong with you? _Why did you come here?_”

Beelzebub’s voice cracks even as their nails tear through the expensive fabric of Gabriel’s jacket. The archangel doesn’t look down at the damage. Instead he puts his arms around Beelzebub, pulling them into his lap, flies and all, cradling them there on the floor of Hell with some nameless ooze seeping into his clothes.

“I came because I love you,” he whispers, stroking their hair. “I love you, Beelzebub.”

The demon shudders. They have no doubt that it is true. Even though they can’t sense love ethereally, they’d be an idiot not to have felt it from Gabriel by now. They are also quite sure that Gabriel said it out loud because he is an asshole, and he knew it would make Beelzebub’s skin crawl.

“I hate you,” they mutter, faced buried in his shoulder. “I hate you zzo, zzo much.”

“That’s all right, then.” Gabriel smiles and kisses the top of Beelzebub’s head. “Now tell me about this idea of yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My soft heart wants these two to stay together, but of course that spells absolute disaster for the rest of the world. Anyway, I hope this story was as much fun to read as it was to write!


End file.
